Downton Turned Upside Down
by kateandsomebooks
Summary: A contagious bout of parody and silliness seems to be spreading through Downton, and it's started downstairs. What can have caused it? Can it be reversed? Warning: Contains eccentric humour and silliness.
1. The Carson Conundrum

**A contagious bout of parody and silliness seems to be spreading through Downton, and it's started downstairs. What can have caused it? Can the effects be reversed? First attempt at fanfiction in ages, let alone parody, so humour is light at the moment whilst I get back into the swing.**

**CHAPTER 1: THE CARSON CONUNDRUM**

Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham, gazed out at the crisp autumn morning from his favourite window in the library. The air was breathless, the sky concealed in a chill haze peculiar to that "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness", and the grounds coated in a thin frost which had brittled the grass over-night and snapped leaves from the great trees that circumferenced Downton Abbey.

The trees had stood like centurions around the gates and footways of Downton since the time of their plantation by his earliest ancestors. Year by year each custodian of the great Crawley dynasty had added another, so that every tree seemed to Robert as imposing reminders of the past as the portraits that stared down from the many walls.

Not that he ever needed to be reminded of the weight of his ancestry, nor the part in its survival he had to play. With no son and his only heir a middle class banker from Manchester, who was as worryingly modern as he was respectful of the family's traditional ways, Robert's role was increasingly difficult. The preservation of Downton and its intricate way of life hung in the absolute balance, and Robert often wondered if his would be the last generation to have the privilege of managing it thus.

"We'll see, Pharoah old boy," he said, half to himself as much as to the dog at his feet, who looked up at his master with curious loyalty. He patted the old dog on his head, and turned at Carson's familiar harrumph beside the door.

"Ah, good morning Cars-"

Lord Grantham fixed his gaze upon his butler in utter astonishment.

Carson was, in many ways, as well presented as he had ever known. Always a pedant of presentation, from the ankles up he was without fault; his polished buttons shone pale in the morning light, his starched collar roundly cupped the familiar jowls of neck and face, and his expression was as Lord Grantham had remembered on every morning he had known it. It was perhaps this which was most surprising of all, for Carson was wearing no shoes or socks.

Robert wondered for a beat if he was dreaming, but no, he closed his eyes and opened them again; Carson's feet were entirely bare. He could see the imprint of his butler's toes on the library carpet. Robert was in the process of locating the correct words to convey his bewilderment, when Carson spoke before him.

"The Dowager Countess, m'lord."

Good God. Mother. That she was not flying about the house in search of an explanation for Carson's lack of footwear was amazement itself; she was either entirely and suddenly without sight, which would explain her uncommonly early visit, or she had not noticed at all, which seemed unlikely.

Banking on the latter nonetheless, Lord Grantham resolved to keep the information from her, or else be hounded forevermore for allowing a servant's bare feet to tarnish the floors of the house.

"Mother!" Violet Crawley swept in as ever like a brisk gust of gale-force air. "How are you?"

"Well enough, Robert. I find myself little concerned with _my_ _own_ welfare today." Lord Grantham looked over her shoulder as they exchanged a brief kiss. Carson was still standing barefoot beside the door. Before Violet could turn around, Lord Grantham spoke up.

"Thank you, Carson. You may go."

Carson bowed his head, and strode away.

Lord Grantham had an incredible desire to sit down.

"Robert," Violet said, in a tone that told him at once all was not well. "I would quite like some refreshment, but if I have to see _that man_ again, I fear the benefits will be outmeasured."

"You noticed?" Robert bent to his knees beside his mother as she sank herself into an armchair. "Mother I can't think of what to say. Carson has always been the veritable figurehead of propriety, and just now I turn and see him shoeless-"

"You mean to say," Violet wheezed, gripping the arms of the chair as if they were her sole link to sanity. "That I leave my house and my staff this morning in the most unthinkable state, and arrive here to find that not only is your own household suffering the same affliction of mind, but you cannot account for this extraordinary behaviour?"

Lord Grantham frowned.

"What on earth do you mean, mother?"

* * *

><p>"Daisy!" Screamed Mrs Patmore, grasping up a breadknife to the terror of her young apprentice "Where are you going with those onions? It's breakfast we're doing you silly girl, not dinner."<p>

"They're boiled eggs, Mrs Patmore," Daisy squealed, dodging Mrs Patmore, who was twirling the knife like a baton. As if running the gauntlet of the kitchen at breakfast time was not enough of a challenge; Mrs Patmore seemed more than usually aggressive today.

"Don't be such a fool; you think I don't know an onion when I see one?"

Fortunately for Daisy, Mrs Hughes swept to her rescue.

"Daisy, get those eggs up to the dining room _at once_; Lord Grantham is already downstairs. Mrs Patmore, surely you have something to be getting on with?"

"Oh no, of course not," Mrs Patmore drawled. "Not silly old me, the lord think it!"

Mrs Hughes knew better than to continue a conversation with Mrs Patmore when she was in such a temper, so took herself out of the kitchen, and encountered Mr Carson in the doorway.

"Mr Carson!" she exclaimed, staring at his feet. "Where are your shoes?"

The kitchen at Downton Abbey was never silent or still, however every member of staff present stopped what they were doing at that moment to stare at Mr Carson's bare toes.

Mr Carson regarded them all with intense disapproval.

"I am very busy this morning. It surprises me that you all seem to have time for such childish games, particularly you, Mrs Hughes," he frowned at her. "Please, get on with your work."

Whatever errand he had in the kitchen, Mr Carson seem to have forgotten about it, for he turned at once on his naked heel, went into his parlour and shut the door.

The whole kitchen stared after him, including Mrs Hughes.

"Well I…" she remembered on a sudden that Lord Grantham was downstairs and half of breakfast still not on the table. When she turned around, she met the quizzical eyes of everyone in the room. "Well?" she said. "Back to work, all of you!" At once the kitchen was a-bustle again. This matter would be resolved, but not until after breakfast. "And Mrs Patmore, _put _that knife down before you have someone's eye out!" Daisy had reappeared, and Mrs Patmore had started on her again, gesticulating wildly with the knife. At Mrs Hughes' words, she flung the knife into the sink, where it fell amongst the pots with a crash. Daisy scuttled away in fright, and Mrs Hughes gave the cook a lasting look of strong rebuke, before taking herself away.

Across the kitchen, Thomas exchanged a dark glance with Miss O'Brien, and then vanished upstairs to the dining room. Lady Grantham's bell had rung a full ten seconds ago. O'Brien finally set off after it; lingering by the stairs for a moment to listen to Carson's incoherent grumbles and bare-footed pacing behind his parlour door.

What strange goings on. Something was definitely up, and Thomas was likely to know about it.


	2. The Baffling Mr Bates

**CHAPTER 2: THE BAFFLING MR BATES**

Lady Cora Crawley had only just rung for her maid when there was a knock at her door.

"Is that you, O'Brien?" she called out in surprise. Dear though she was, Cora had never known O'Brien for her blisteringly punctuality. However it was Robert who opened the door, and there was a wild look about him that worried Cora.

"Robert, what on earth has happened? Is it your mother? I heard the door-"

"No, mother is as strong as ever," Robert said, sitting down on the bed beside her "If a little harried. She is currently at breakfast with the girls, who I believe are calming her nerves."

Robert laid a hand on his brow, and Cora stared at her husband, wide eyed with concern.

"For heaven's sake Robert, tell me what has happened."

To her surprise, he uttered a weary laugh.

"I hardly know how to put it… it all seems so absurd… I was in the library earlier this morning, and Carson came in to announce mother, only…" he stopped, battling within himself whether to share the shocking news with his wife. As he spoke, he turned to look at her, and she read the despairing puzzlement in his face. "He was barefoot, Cora."

Cora's brow creased in response to her husband's bewilderment.

"Barefoot?" She repeated, as if she had never heard the word before in her life. "Carson? Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, Dearest, unless I'm as delirious as he is."

"Well… did you ask him _why_?"

"No," said Lord Grantham, fixing a distant, troubled gaze upon the far wall. "Not whilst mother was there. I sent him away as soon as possible. Naturally, she had noticed anyway-"

"Of course, of course. How _unaccountable _of him… this isn't like Carson at all."

"And, Cora, here is the wild part…" he looked back at his wife, forehead clouded with despair and bafflement. "She tells me that _her own_ servants have been acting in the most unfathomable ways-"

There was a cough from doorway. Lord Grantham stood up.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, m'lady," O'Brien said. "Lady Sybil says that Mrs Crawley is on the telephone and has asked for you."

"Thank you, O'Brien. Come and dress me, and I'll go down at once."

Lord Grantham looked between his wife and O'Brien, who was standing quite still. As ever he felt as though he was being watched by the sinister vulture which perpetually sat on O'Brien's head and tried to disguise itself as hair. Of course she had been listening at the door.

"We will continue our conversation at a more convenient time," he said, making for the door, and fixing a stern look upon O'Brien. "In the meantime, I shall attempt to get to the bottom of this most unsettling situation."

* * *

><p>Downstairs, all was far from well.<p>

Mrs Hughes was thankful for little else that morning other than breakfast being out of the way, for she had never known such peculiar goings on in all her years of service, nor ever before in her life. She had been forced summon every ounce of integrity just to manage the staff, most of whom were in various states of emotional breakdown.

It was the clamour more than anything, the incessant worried chatter and occasional wild hysterics in the small kitchen rooms, brought on by Mr Carson's extraordinary behaviour earlier on (he was now unreachable, having locked himself in his parlour, grumbling to himself and refusing to come out), and this latest, most troubling occurrence…

For the past half an hour, Mr Bates had been lying, front down, quite alive and apparently perfectly content, on the kitchen floor.

Mrs Hughes had been forced to request the use of the upstairs telephone in order to phone for Doctor Clarkson, the downstairs contraption being unreachably locked in Mr Carson's parlour. Having spent a stressful ten minutes pacing back and forth in front of the house, she was now hurrying back along the servants' passages to the kitchen, with a bewildered Doctor Clarkson in tow.

"Quiet, all of you," Mrs Hughes raised her hands, and, thankfully, the room fell silent, aside from Anna's small sobs and Mr Carson's low, angry, yet disturbingly animated conversation with himself in his parlour. "Doctor Clarkson is here." She channelled through the circle of servants, and knelt down beside Mr Bates.

"Mr Bates, I have brought Doctor Clarkson to see you," she said kindly. "Do you still not want to sit up?"

"You must decide upon the evidence before you," said Mr Bates calmly, eliciting from Anna a low moan of distress.

"That's all he's been saying, Mrs Hughes," she said.

"Mr Bates?" Doctor Clarkson frowned down at the sprawled man, whose expression read as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be lying upon a flagstone floor. "Are you in any pain?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say."

"And that," Anna sobbed, from her nesting place in a handkerchief and Gwen's shoulder. "Oh that's the worst!"

"There appears to be no blood…" Doctor Clarkson said. "But I am reluctant to move him… Mr Bates?" Doctor Clarkson spoke calmly. "I really must insist you tell me, in your own time, if and where you feel to be injured."

"I'm afraid you must decide upon the evidence before you."

The kitchen lapsed into horrified whispers once more. Thomas caught O'Brien's eye and jerked his head towards the door.

"Fancy a smoke?"

"Don't mind if I do," O'Brien replied, and they glided out of the back door.

The entire staff jumped as Mr Carson's parlour door opened and slammed, and Mr Carson himself appeared in the door.

If Carson's shocking lack of propriety had stunned the whole staff of Downton before, it had at least been so out of character that nobody could imagine it getting any worse. However, as every pair of eyes settled upon their fallen leader, imagination immediately became unnecessary.

Not only was Carson barefoot, but he was also wearing pyjamas.

Mrs Patmore screamed. Daisy pushed the breadknife out of sight.

"What on earth is the matter?" Carson grumbled, taking advantage of the stunned, silent attention.

"I'm not at liberty to say," Mr Bates muttered unobtrusively from the floor.

Carson's eyes swivelled to the collapsed Bates, and then back to Mrs Hughes, apparently oblivious to the open-mouthed horror on her face. Every hair on his head was irrevocably wild, as if he had removed every one himself and replaced them at bizarre angles.

"His Lordship wishes to see me directly, on important business, no doubt. It seems not all of you have something to be getting on with. See that you make yourselves useful…"

"Mr Carson!" Mrs Hughes cried hoarsely as he made for the stairs. "I insist you sit down at once and allow Doctor Clarkson to speak with you. You cannot attend on his Lordship in such a state of undress!"

"A doctor indeed, Mrs Hughes really... I have no time for such nonsense today, thank you," Mr Carson replied, and ascended the stairs before she had time to restrain him further. Mrs Patmore released a desolate howl into her apron.

"Should I go after him, Mrs Hughes?" Branson asked, but Mrs Hughes could not reply. Indeed it seemed as though she had not heard. The telephone rang from Carson's parlour, so he hurried to answer it instead.

"No," Doctor Clarkson injectured, "I suggest the best course of action is to leave Mr Carson to act as he wishes, however strangely that may be, until I have had time to investigate further. I will speak to Lord Grantham myself. As for Bates, try to get him sitting up; it won't do for a man in his condition to be lying down for too long a time."

William fetched a chair for Mrs Hughes, who lowered herself into it and raised a troubled hand to her brow. For once she was utterly speechless.

"Erm, Mrs Hughes…?" Branson coughed from the doorway. "His Lordship would like to speak to you, urgently." He swallowed. Every trace of colour was gone from his face. "It's started upstairs."

"_Upstairs_?" Mrs Hughes asked, aghast, and rose from her chair. "What on earth is happening to this house?"

"I'm afraid you must decide on the evidence before you," said Mr Bates calmly as she hurried off to Carson's parlour, and the kitchen became chaos once more.

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